The Fall Of the High King's Men
by Hisie
Summary: Re-posted because even I couldn't read it when the words were clumped up together. Short Ecthelion, Glorfindel death fic.


R/R. please? clears throat (will not beg). I own Ecthelion and Glorfindel. Really.  
  
Glorfindel and Tuor looked on in grief. Ecthelion had fallen and with him, Gothmog. Idril grabbed her husband's arm and led him to the secret pass with the remnants of their people. Earendil clung to his mother for support. In his eyes were the innocence of a child that had forever been marred after the death of one of his favourite companions. Tuor reached out and grabbed him, comforting the 7 year old with soft words.  
  
Glorfindel hid his grief and pain and occupied himself shouting orders to all the people who could fight. Ecthelion had died to save them. His closest friend had passed beyond knowledge to the halls of Namo. And he had taken balrogs and orcs and goblins with him. And now, in his wake, Glorfindel vividly remembered his friend.  
  
The Lord of The Fountain was looking most displeased. His eyes were narrowed and his face wore an expression that told any onlookers to scatter as fast as it was possible. Ecthelion glared at his young charge and Earendil glared back in horror.  
  
"I SWEAR I didn't mean to that Ecthelion. I didn't know I was kicking that hard. I swear. I didn't know you would get this wet." The 5-year-old elfling looked so morose that Ecthelion's expression mollified slightly.  
  
"You drenched my Guard attire, pen-neth. I had to wear this today to the feast your anadar is planning. And now, I have nothing to wear." Earendil looked thoughtful. "You do not have another uniform of the House of The Fountain?"  
  
Ecthelion sighed. "Nay, little master, my other was also spoiled by you." By this time, his eyes were twinkling. "I'll take blame for this entire situation. Anadar cannot be angry at you if I did it!"  
  
Ecthelion laughed and took Earendil's hand. "Well then, nin tithen hir, we shall go tell your anadar that I am not to blame for this misfortune." And under his breath he added. "For once."  
  
Ecthelion was silent. The Lords of all the Houses of Gondolin had been called to discuss the war. His role as one of the King's lieutenants put him in the position where he had to speak and discuss the war strategies. All he had wanted to do at this moment was play his flute in front of the first fountain built in Gondolin in the older part of the palace. He had built it himself and mallorn trees surrounded it. It was truly the most significant sign of the long and lasting friendship between Glorfindel and himself.  
  
But instead he had been summoned by the King to discuss a further battle against Morgoth. His birth in Arda had ensured that not a moment had gone by when there was long and true peace. Of course he loved it in Middle- Earth. It was just that at moments like this he wished he had followed the Calaquendi and had remained happy in Tirion that he had heard so much about from Glorfindel. His eyes drooped as the Lord of The Harp began a long, boring discourse. He would have happily told him to stuff his face with his bloody discourse, but NO, he was POLITE!!! He glared at Turgon. Turgon was asleep. He glared at Glorfindel. Glorfindel made a face back.  
  
Ecthelion stood up, with grace that reminded all present of a cat about to pounce.  
  
"Glorfindel and I must leave and attend to matters concerning the outer defence."  
  
Turgon glared but had no choice but to excuse them before he fell asleep again. Glorfindel laughed as he and his friend walked around the serene city centre. Ecthelion's reply was a grin "You owe me, nin-mellon" Glorfindel laughed again.  
  
And now, as he led his people to the pass, Glorfindel felt his eyes mist slightly. It had been long since either he or Ecthelion had smiled. And Ecthelion had died wearily, to protect his Lord. Gothmog had been coming towards Tuor but Ecthelion had driven the spike of his helmet into Gothmog and had twined himself around the balrog and together they fell into the fountain.  
  
Glorfindel stumbled and was steadied by Idril's gentle hand. He hardened himself and drew his sword to defend his people against the fresh onslaught of Goblins.  
  
Ecthelion had a childish laugh, he would break down into peals and peals of laughter that would make anyone listening laugh as well. He did not laugh often though. His father had died in Vinyamar and he had become the Lord Of he Fountain soon after. At the tender age of 60. He had taken all his advice from Glorfindel, who was but a few years older than him and had come to be Lord of The Golden Flower in the same year as he. His smile lit the heart's of all those who saw it. But, just like his laugh, it was not something that appeared very often. There were only some other than his childhood friends who had seen his face light up. After all, hardly anyone in those days could claim the ability to laugh often.  
  
They entered the secret passage and Tuor and Idril were urging their disheartened people on. Soon they were climbing the perilous path of the Cristhorn and were gaining height.  
  
Then, they were ambushed by a small group of orcs and a balrog. Glorfindel wanted to laugh. Ecthelion had killed 3; he could definitely take on 1. But he forgot his wounds and weariness and in his battle lust and grief, he hewed off the balrog's whip arm. And in it's pain, the creature that Melkor created, pounced upon him and dragged him into Cristhorn by his hair.  
  
Tuor's breath caught in grief and he handed Earendil to Idril before drawing his sword and launching an attack on the band of orcs.  
Their salvation, however, only came when Thorondor and his people rescued them and brought Glorfindel's body back from the abyss.  
  
And many laments were sung after the fall of their two great lords and their King. Their city had been destroyed and many of their best people with it.  
  
And Namo looked upon their spirits and let them rest in his halls until they wished to look upon Arda again.  
  
End  
  
Pen-neth: young one. (I think.)  
  
Anadar: grandfather  
  
Nin tithen hir: I did not look into grammar on this one but the literal translation is my little lord.  
  
Nin mellon: my friend. 


End file.
